


Chiaroscuro

by thesaddestboner



Category: National Football League RPF
Genre: Angst, Anonymous Sex, Detroit Lions, M/M, POV Second Person, Sexualized Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-18
Updated: 2005-12-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 11:29:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/490405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The defense is blitzing; you take the sack.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chiaroscuro

**Author's Note:**

> Full credit goes to [**ayrdomei**](http://ayrdomei.livejournal.com/) for _Not like you've got much of a career to protect anyway._ and _It's honest about what it is._ Thanks to [**ayrdomei**](http://ayrdomei.livejournal.com/) and [**nyychick23513**](http://nyychick23513.livejournal.com/) for listening to me whine about it in IMs.
> 
> This is for one of [**anonymous_sibyl**](http://anonymous_sibyl.livejournal.com/)'s hoilday wishes. This is kind of an homage to hers and [**alixnoorchis**](http://alixnoorchis.livejournal.com/)'s Joey fics.
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

He catches your gaze from the other side of the bar, a simple nod, long fingers curled around a half-empty glass of something amber-colored. He crooks a finger at you and when you look around, like you don't _know_ , and point to yourself, he nods again.

So you go to him. 

"I haven't seen you around here before," the guys says, sipping his drink.

"I'm not from around here," you say, clearing your throat, leaning your elbow against the counter top. You reach up and tug at your tie, ghost fingertips at your Adam's apple, ghost hands at your belt buckle.

"I can tell." The guy smiles at you, a pull of the upper lip against teeth, a snake smile. "My name's John. Nice to meet you."

"My name's . . . John too." It's not exactly a lie. 

The guy raises an eyebrow at you, quirks his lips. "Really now? What a coincidence." He looks rich, has gold cufflinks, a tailored shirt, perfectly manicured nails. Has to be a businessman of some sort. He smells nice, like expensive cologne, and you kind of want to bury your nose in the valley where his neck meets his shoulder and breathe him in.

You clear your throat. "John's a common name."

"Wanna go somewhere?" He tilts his chin at you, flicks his eyes toward the exit. 

"Sure," you say, crossing your arms over your chest, tucking your fingers into the crook of your elbow, your fingertips itching for pigskin, aching for the familiar press of bodies, pile ups, red on silver and blue, hungry for it. There's a tenebrous flash of something in the corners of his eyes, something feral and darkly terrifying, the same look you see in the eyes of the linebackers who are just dying to get a piece of you, the same look you see in the linebackers' eyes just as they pound you into the FieldTurf, and so you go with him.

*

You're in a cheap motel, there are rug burns on your knees, a funny thick taste in the back of your throat, and some strange man's cock in your mouth.

Typical Sunday night for John Joseph Harrington.

This guy, he acts like you've never sucked a cock before, his hands at the back of your head, holding you in place. You grip him by the hips, your stubbled cheek brushing against the soft, white inside of his thigh, and he hisses, eyes heavy and half-lidded. He parts his lips and tilts his head back, and keeps his hands on your head, and you can feel the tension in his thighs pulling through his entire body, as you suck, lick, and nibble; when you graze your teeth against paper-thin skin, accidentally on purpose, he lets out a soft sigh and squeezes his fingers around the back of your neck.

He says, "I'm going to come," and you think, _Well, duh._ You can't help but smile around him, trying hard not to laugh, and there is a tug on the back of your head.

"The fuck are you laughing at," he asks, eyes flashing unkindly. He tightens his grip at the nape of your neck, and your head is jacked back, and the light is glaring right into your eyes, and you're momentarily blinded.

You smile, your mouth full, and mumble, "Nothing."

He tugs harder, his fingernails sinking into the back of your neck. He brushes his thumb over the corner of your mouth and leans down real close, laughing, "You're a mess," breath hushing over the round of your cheek hot and cool at the same time.

"I know I am," you say, and you do. You can't go a day without feeling it or seeing it or hearing it, in some capacity; you feel it in the pain that clings to your bones every time you move, in the lines on your skin, in the turf burn (at least, that's what you tell yourself it is), in the bags under your eyes, the waxy sallowness of your skin. You can almost hear phantom fans chanting for your head on a silver platter.

He traces his fingernail down underneath your eye and up over the curve of your cheek. "You're so pretty, so fucking pretty," he murmurs.

"Are you going to fuck me now?"

He laughs and trails his fingers through your sweat-stiff hair, hovering his lips over yours. "Impatient one, huh?" 

You stroke your thumb over his hipbone and your knees ache from kneeling for so long, "I've been told I'm good in bed," curling the corner of your mouth into a little smirk, curling your hand around his thigh.

Something strange snaps behind his ice-blue eyes, and before you can even think about what that could possibly mean, you're on your stomach on cheap motel sheets, and he's behind you, whispering dirty things into your ear, pushing your face into the stained pillow (stained with what? you're not sure you want to know), his hair falls into your eyes in burnished waves, and then you feel it, him, all the pain you've tried to ignore rushing back with one flick of his hips, and you bite down on something soft, your hand. 

He threads his fingers through your hair and pulls your head back, mouth wet and hot on your neck. "You like it this rough, pretty boy?"

"Always," you rasp, arching into it.

He pushes you back into the mattress, and you can feel him sweat-slick and sliding over you. Your hips begin to ache. He whispers in your ear about how he's going to give you the fucking of a lifetime, how you'll be feeling it into next week, and you laugh, you press your face into the pillow to muffle it, clutch your hands in the bedsheets and squirm underneath him.

You feel his teeth on your shoulder, grazing, and then biting down, catching the skin between his teeth, and it sends a tremor through you. He feels it too, that inside shakeoff of your heart, and he moves back, but you reach out and snag his jaw in your hand, pull him back.

"No," you husk, "do it again. Harder this time." You move his hand from your back to the side of your neck, leave it there. "Here."

He says, "Are you sure about that?" and his voice is smoke-thin, trembling, and he's not on you anymore, not in you, he's beside you, his hand tripping out chords on the small of your back.

"Yes," you say, and press his hand down over your throat.

You feel his teeth sink into the soft skin at the base of your neck, where it meets with your shoulder, tentatively at first, but he eases into it when you turn onto your back and pull him against your chest, guiding him to your throat, collarbone, shoulder, neck.

Then he's fucking you again, and his teeth are on your skin, and it's too much, too much, and you fight against it and you lose, you shudder violently against him, your arms locking around his shoulders, your leg hooking around his leg, and he follows shortly thereafter.

When the two of you are spent, he presses his mouth against a mark he left behind on your chest, his hair in your face and in your mouth. You pat your hand through his hair, awkwardly, tilting your head, watching him as he moves over you, his pink mouth on your porcelain skin.

He moves to kiss you and you turn your head. "I should go." _Intentional grounding_ cuts through the post-sex haze clouding your mind, and you smile to yourself, hide it behind your hand.

"Okay." He rolls off of you and bends down to pick up his boxers from the floor, dangling them from his fingertips. He gets up and steps into them, and you lay back, resting your chin on your fist, watching as he pulls up his khakis and fastens them. He goes over to the nightstand and picks up his watch, slipping it on and snapping it against his wrist, sliding a thin gold band onto his ring finger, stealing glances in your direction.

Standing there in front of you, at the foot of the bed, and he's drenched in light, it filters through his hair and tips it in gold, as gold as the gold of the wedding band you hadn't noticed before. He doesn't look so carnivorous in the light, and the hungry gleam is gone from his eyes. His eyes are blue and light, like glass marbles, and could be almost pretty.

"I guess I'll be seeing you around then?" He begins buttoning up his shirt, his fingers flying. Maybe he's a pianist. You'll never know, but it's fun to imagine it so.

You pick at the medical tape encircling your wrist. "No, you won't be."

He quirks his eyebrow at you but says nothing, finishing buttoning his shirt, tucking it into the waist of his khakis. "Okay. Bye." He pauses. "Joey." He picks up his sports coat, carelessly slung over the back of a char, and pulls it on, before opening the door and stepping out.

Somewhere, at the back of your mind, you think that maybe you should be concerned, because you never told him your real name, he could tell _everybody_ , but as you watch his retreating form, you don't think he will. 

And to be honest, you're not really sure you care anymore. Not like you've got much of a career to protect anyway.

You lay on your back in the bed, the rough foam-rubber sheets itching at your skin, cigarette holes in the bedspread, water stains in the cheap, crummy ceiling tiles. 

Actually, now that you think about it, you kind of like it here. The place has its own sort of charm. It's honest about what it is. You roll onto your side and fumble for the lightswitch. You flip it and the room is plunged into darkness and shadows.

You hear a noise in the hall that sounds a lot like the roaring of fans, but you realize, almost disappointedly, that it's only a vaccuum.

The roar gets louder.

_The defense is blitzing; you take the sack._

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


End file.
